The origin of the flood can be traced to a cloudburst at the Vasukital glacier lake to the north-east of the Kedarnath valley.

When clouds burst over the sacred mountains, even gods could not protect them. In the elemental fury of water and falling hills, the dead multiplied on ravaged terrains and the living struggled in vain to reach the far shores of survival. In one of its worst monsoons, the state of Uttarakhand became a watery graveyard for hundreds and a monumental reminder of how nature's rage can be compounded by man's callousness. The day after on Ground Zero said it all.

The dead lay unattended at hospitals with no room, in refugee centres with no facilities, in villages that no longer existed, and across the valleys ravaged by flash floods. Roads were torn away, temples were submerged, and children were crushed by falling boulders. Their weeping mothers could be seen sitting on the sides of the roads, grieving for a life lost, and waiting for a saviour. Over the last week, helpless strangers have reached out to comfort one another, the elderly have piggybacked to safety, and middle-aged women have rappelled across angry rivers. Ignored by a greedy and complicit political establishment that has exploited a dangerous terrain for profit, a ticking time bomb has finally gone off. It has already claimed approximately 1,000 lives, displaced tens of thousands, and torn apart countless families.

Officials say 4,000 people are stranded and 340 are still missing.

India is now trying to count the cost of the largest disaster to hit the northern state of Uttarakhand, scrabbling through the debris to discover the fate of approximately 50,000 missing locals and pilgrims who were heading for the 'Chota Char Dham' Hindu shrines of Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangotri and Yamunotri, and the Sikh pilgrimage site of Hemkund. But the people they are trying to belatedly rescue want to know how the state and Central governments-which are now flagging off relief vehicles with fanfare, and announcing aid worth Rs 1,500 crore-allowed a human tragedy of such proportions to come to pass.

The anguished victims are asking why 10,000 pilgrims were allowed to assemble in the rocky Kedarnath area despite a dire weather warning. Why 233 villages in the region that are listed as 'disaster prone' were left to fend for themselves. Why private players are allowed to control and divert 70 per cent of the river water in the region, mainly from the Ganga, the Alaknanda, and the Bhagirathi. Why hotels, shops and houses mushroom on hillsides without permits. How the Rs 123 crore sanctioned in 2010 for disaster management and training of gram panchayats was spent. Why there is no information-sharing between various disaster management, geological and meteorological organisations. And, what is the roadmap for the rehabilitation of locals who have lost everything in the flash floods.

Even gods were helpless at the site of Kedarnath Temple.

The origin of the flood can be traced to a cloudburst at the Vasukital glacier lake, 14,200 feet above sea level, to the north-east of the Kedarnath valley. Water from the overflowing lake hurtled down towards Kedarnath, destroying most of the religious township, except for the main stone temple, in its wake. The water then darted downstream via the Alaknanda, Mandakini and Bhagirathi rivers.

Sweeping away houses and people in their path, they rushed towards Rudraprayag, where the Mandakini meets the Alaknanda. This coincided with the dams at Vishnuprayag and Srinagar being allegedly thrown open out of fear that they would burst under the pressure of the current gushing southwards. The release of water stored in these dams, coupled with fresh water from the swelling rivers, soon engulfed Govindghat just south of Vishnuprayag and Shakti Vihar in Srinagar. The rivers then raged towards the most spectacular of confluences at Devprayag, just 68 km north of Rishikesh, where the Alaknanda meets the Bhagirathi to form the mighty Ganga.

At around 5.45 a.m. on June 16, Bageesha Lingacharya, 43, the main priest of Kedarnath temple, was feeling uneasy while heading down to the temple to start the daily prayers. It was a gloomy morning after a night of incessant rain in the valley, at an altitude of 11,755 ft, surrounded by mountains with green cover. The pilgrims had lined up for darshan, but Lingacharya was oddly distracted. "Somehow I wasn't feeling at peace from inside," he tells india today. His strain of thought was broken all of a sudden by the deafening clap of thunder, and the sound of water gushing down from the side of Vasukital up in the hills. In a couple of minutes, ice-cold water touched his feet. "The water reached my neck by the time I ran to the temple," says Lingacharya. As the level kept rising, he clung to a temple wall. Soon the entire structure was shaking, as if it would come crumbling down. "I heard a creaking sound and saw that the western door of the temple, which has been shut for years, had been pushed open by the force of the current. The water started flushing out through the exit, and within minutes, the temple was no longer flooded."

A woman breaks down as her injured husband is taken to safety.

The horror Lingacharya saw when he finally walked out of the temple was unimaginable. A man and a child had died at the gate of the temple clinging to each other. Next to them was a woman, also dead, trying desperately to reach out to them with her outstretched hand. There were three more bodies outside the temple's main hall, and several more strewn across the various stone structures that line the complex. "Our pristine valley had turned into a graveyard," says Lingacharya.

The scenes of destruction and chaos were similar down the mountains, stretching to Rishikesh on one side and Gauchar on the other. The disaster covers a total area of 40,000 sq km mostly spread over four districts-Rudraprayag, Uttarkashi, Chamoli and Pithoragarh-five times the size of the Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai and Kolkata metropolitan areas combined. The estimated loss to the tourism industry alone is Rs 12,000 crore, made up of denominations as tiny as the Rs 10 a local porter charges to carry bags up to steep dharamshalas. Rebuilding will cost tens of thousands of crores, starting with the Rs 46 lakh needed to build every kilometre of the 1,307 roads and 147 bridges that have been destroyed. Nearly 400 villages have been wiped out. Food and supplies are running out in the areas of Harsil and Gaurikund. Refugee centres are swelling with people holding up photographs of their relatives and friends. There are stories of how some of them trekked for two full days towards safety, scavenging for biscuits and drinking river water along the way. How they saw their loved ones die in front of their eyes-some from starvation, some sucked into the water, and some falling off cliffs.

Sudhir Kumar Gupta, 40, a businessman from Kanpur who was separated from his wife Maya, son Rohan, and daughter Anjali on the trek to Kedarnath, was holed up in a dharamshala in Gaurikund when the clouds burst. Taking shelter near the primary health centre at the village until all outsiders were turned away by the headman due to dwindling resources, Gupta bought a packet of biscuits for Rs 100, a water bottle for Rs 200, and decided to trek down the mountain with 500 others. The road that had been sliced away almost entirely by the Alaknanda river. There was a point near Fata village where the road was no more than one foot wide. "About 50 members of our company slipped into the river and vanished into the water. Seven of them fell right in front of my eyes," says Gupta. He saw bodies hanging from trees, and lying scattered in the forest. Their ears and fingers had been chopped off for jewellery. Gupta was rescued the next day by an Army helicopter. "I don't know how I'm alive. On that trek, I had given up on life several times," he says.

Rebuilding the lives of locals remains a bigger challenge even as the focus is on pilgrims and tourists.

Rishikesh, on the banks of Ganga, is a Hindu spiritual gateway where the idea of tranquillity is shattered at the bus terminus of the town. It is an epicentre of organised chaos, with its blowing horns, screaming conductors and street vendors. This terminus has now turned into a mirror of unimaginable tragedy. Nobody notices Gaurav Singh, a 25-year-old software engineer from Aligarh, as he breaks down from pain and desperation, pulls his hair, and thumps his chest. For five days, Singh has stationed himself at the bus stand, scanning every vehicle bringing the stranded victims from Kedarnath. Repeated attempts to reach his parents on their mobile phones have ended with a recorded voice stating that their numbers are switched off. A stranger finally offers Singh some water. This man is holding the photographs of his wife and two children missing since June 16. There are many like him in Rishikesh. They rush to every bus or jeep that arrives in town, searching frantically for their missing relatives. They show photographs to those getting off, asking if they've seen their loved ones, and wait for the next lot of vehicles.

Through all this, the government machinery is conspicuous by its absence. There is no official at the Rishikesh bus station, only some voluntary organisations arranging medical help and food at makeshift shelters. The attitude and reaction time of Uttarakhand's Congress Chief Minister Vijay Bahuguna has come in for criticism from members of his own party, let alone the Opposition. "The state government always tried to undermine the impact of the calamity," says a Union minister. "The inordinate delay in rescue operations has put a dent on the image of the party in Uttarakhand and outside." Officials say Bahuguna's job may be in danger once things get back to normal. "Right now, the focus is on saving lives. But later, responsibility will be fixed," says a Congress general secretary.

A great concern now is that rotting bodies may trigger an epidemic

With the civilian establishment proving unable to cope with either relief or rescue, the Army and the Air Force have been forced to swoop in and save the day. Together, they have launched their largest evacuation operation in history, involving 7,000 soldiers, 150 parachute commandos, and 58 helicopters. "It is a war and a race," a senior Army official explains. "A war against nature and a race against time." But it's all just damage control. Nature is an enemy that cannot be defeated and Time is an adversary that cannot be outrun.